Some time later

In need of shirts, Philip notices Anna enter the Thrift Store. Across the racks he watches. Is he transfixed? Can he look down and make his selections? A bundle of five long-sleeved button down shirts regardless of colour, light cotton. White is preferred. He clutches these that he's chosen already and gazes at her as she, alone, makes her way to the rack of women's dresses. He wants to walk over to help her choose. He wants to show her that  he can, and it will mean nothing. Nothing like that. But as she looks around he cannot. He drops his eyes and, focussing, shaking his head, he chooses two, three more shirts and makes his way to the counter to pay. She has disappeared, as far as he can tell. Left the store, or walked into the side-room where the used shoes line wooden racks, alongside boots and skates, not ordered by size or by use, but by some generic, elderly volunteer's sense of gender. Once Philip, searching for curling shoes - he curled too occasionally to afford a new pair - had found a pair among the women's penny-loafers, alongside a pair of red, white, and brown leather bowling shoes.

A volunteer clerk at the counter smiles as he walks up. "Hello Philip," she says.

He looks up and smiles, placing the shirts, still on their hangers, on the counter. Behind her the second clerk says, "I can help you on this side," and then of course he can feel it, in fact, as Anna walks around from behind him to the other side of the U-shaped check-out station. He looks up to her just as she looks down.

The clerk in front of him, the counting done, says, "Twelve dollars." Philip searches for it and sees that he's short.

"I'll leave one that's two dollars," he says. "I only have ten."

"I can lend you two," says Anna. Philip looks up. She smiles at him. "Here," she says, as she holds out her hand with the coins, palm up.

"We have Interac now," says the clerk to Philip. He looks over at the keypad device, its coil of gray cord dangling off the counter. He was going to use the ten to buy a bottle of Canadian wine. He remembers this now, as he sees how the oddness of the moment has driven him off his course.

"Sure," he says, and both clerks act, one taking the coins from Anna's hand to pass them over, and the other reaching for the keypad. They laugh at each other as they bump behinds and turn. Anna and Philip smile too. "The money," says Philip. Then, "Thank you," he says to Anna and nods. Their eyes hold for a moment under the blue-lit fluorescent hum, where all around them it smells of damp basements. "I owe you?" he says.

"You can give me a ride home," she says.


The ride in:        10'C Wind W 15 ks
The ride home:  19'C Wind NW 25 ks

Style or plot

I just read Sam Lipsyte's short story, The Dungeon Master, from the latest New Yorker. I've never read Lipsyte before, but was immediately reminded of George Saunders. What these two writers (and there are others) have in common is a sense that voice must trump plot. That is, they're betting that we'd rather know someone and hear them talk to us, than be told what they do. That's not to say that nothing happens in these stories, but the internal state of the narrator or the protagonist is fronted, at the expense of all else. It's a kind of Salingerism you might say; you get an ear pipe into the brain. The tangents and visions and musings of the protagonist are the point. Sure something happens, but the direction of the story is subject to the inner journey, or the workings of the mind of an eccentric. At least it's usually an eccentric. But again, I'd contend that if anyone were to have access to the inner workings of any one of us, and then attempted to express it in a medium as convention-laden as a written text, eccentric we all would be. So the story wanders on the whims of a specific consciousness - not to be confused with stream of consciousness - and occasionally the character breaks the surface into the recognizable world of plot and rising action and closure, but otherwise, whether narrated in third or first person, the immanence of an individual mind's function drives the work.

Stories like this have a sense of now. (Have you tried to keep up with your own thoughts?) They are urgent, and always leave the reader a step behind. You're forced to play catch-up, and in this chase you forget the question, what's happening next? and instead wonder, what's this guy thinking? and why's he thinking it? and why do I recognize this craziness?

Read The Dungeon Master and tell me that's not how it works.

Hard hard work!

An elegant dismount

Whatever happened to it? Well if you ride cyclocross once in a while, you don't need to ask the question. The pic to the left is yours truly trying to get off of his bike and failing (flailing) at it! (Thanks for the pic Chris!) It's a challenge to describe the Mennocross course, on CMU's campus no less, without the visuals. It would have been a fast, fun, grassy course. Except for the rain. Which turned a lot (A LOT) of the grass into mud. And riding on grass that's become mud is really a lot like riding on three inches of wet sponge. There was not a lot of easy ground to cover on the course.

If it wasn't gravel pits or hills, it was muck. There were a few reprieves in the way of a sidewalk transition, a gravel parking lot, and a gravel road, but other than that, two-thirds of the course was hard-sluggin'. It was great!

Which leads me to the question: Who wants to work hard these days, just for the pure, painful, protracted, pleasure of it? Have we forgotten the wonder of fatigue? The simple ecstasy of stopping, after having worked your sorry ass off? There is nothing, really nothing, like working until you suffer deep physical distress, to develop a sense of accomplishment, as well as an unfettered understanding of how much you deserve to eat, drink, and be merry. You see, until you've worked, really worked, you can't fully enjoy excellent food (maybe just any food) and party drinks. Every time I ride cyclocross (which isn't often enough; my second and last race this year will be on Oct 18 in Altona - see this Southern Cross link. I'm reminded of my mortality, and I'm pleasantly (indeed?) surprised that my heart can beat that hard and fast, and not blast through my chest like an Alien spawn.

It's a miracle! Good times indeed!

What are churches for

This evening a group of us went to the hospital to sit with a friend who's set to leave us soon. Together with her family we played and harmonized and sang and wept. It was hard. It was holy. It was wonderful.

The rain

Today, with some vehemence, a colleague shared with me that he was tired of the rain. He hated it. I'm not quite so clear on my feeling about it, the rain that is. It's been raining since yesterday evening, and it looks like it could rain all night and into tomorrow. Who knows? I am bothered by the inconveniences of it. I'm sympathetic to the obstacles it poses for the farmers who live around here and need to take in the harvest (In fact this would be what bothers me most about the amount of rain we're getting today; ill-timed rain - and this rain is ill-timed - is brutal for farmers.). I am not, however, a rain hater. I don't mind riding home and getting wet. You make a commitment, you get wet, you live in it, you get home. You feel like you've persevered.

Once I'm home, I don't mind sitting inside doing stuff, knowing that I really can't work around outside, because it's too wet (the rain gives me an excuse to feel like I have no option but to do what I would really want to do anyway - guilt-free!). I like the manageable adversity of the rain. This is also why I like blizzards (and missing a day or two of work isn't bad either) and cold days. It brings to mind the good ol' days of fort-building as a kid. You'd use blankets(!) to help you keep out the world - to protect yourself from the buffets of existence. In this sense rain is a rather benign buffet (at least the way it falls around here - obviously I'd feel differently about it if I was in Pakistan of India during monsoon season) that makes me feel competent in my ability to manage a challenge. The house doesn't leak. We're warm. It's like we're holed up in the forts we built under the basement stairs, or out of the dining room chairs that we dragged into the family room and draped with blankets. We cocoon ourselves inside and just be, together. If I have to go out in it, it's an adventure from which I know I will return to the fort. Long, steady rains like this one remind me of how good we have it. It's wet outside, but not in here. It's windy and cool out there, but not in here.

As I rode into the village today, my oversized, not even water-resistant, windbreaker flapping wet in the north wind, a flock of birds, likely blackbirds, were chattering loudly from the high hedge on Steve's yard. I looked over and couldn't see them. They were inside it of course. And I think they were trying to decide whether to head out and keep flying south, or not. Just when I passed by I bet some idiot said that it would be better to keep moving, to which the rest of the flock responded by drowning him out for his nuttiness. We're staying in here, they said. It's stupid wet out there. We just have to be patient. The clouds will move, the sun will shine through again. Now's a good time to hang around in here and relax. Save up energy for the journey to come.


The ride in:         8'C Wind NE 10 ks
The ride home:    9'C Wind NNE 25 - 30 ks (rain)

I bought two pants* today

Today we had dinner with two friends visiting from Zimbabwe (who will return there this weekend), and two new friends who immigrated (two years ago) from Zimbabwe to Canada and now live in Morden. The dinner was at a friends house in the country.

We talked about politics and the living situation in Zimbabwe. Of course. We talked about different aid strategies and concluded that MCC's, while rare, was the most effective (both in terms of cost, and in terms of fostering positive ongoing change.

We also talked about living here as educated and skilled foreigners unable to get fulfilling work. They have no regrets about leaving, or about living here, but it's clear that there are disappointments. An experienced woman with a Masters Degree in education working as an Educational Assistant in a high school. An experienced and skilled cabinet-maker working on a shop floor for $12/hour. But these people are accustomed to less than ideal situations. They know how to be grateful, and content.

At a few points during the evening we, the Canadians, found ourselves talking about stuff, and what we were excited to do over the next few days. To put it plainly, our wealth showed. Though we may be, by some standards, reasonable and responsible "consumers," we are, compared to these people, spendthrifts. We buy because we want to, or because we get a deal, or because it helps us to feel better.

So what should we do about it? you might ask. We're born here, we're just doing our thing, we're doing no different than they (whoever they may be) would do if they were in our situation. That's a good question. And here's my answer: At least we might have the sense to notice, in the company of those who have, or can afford, less than we have, to not talk about what we have or what we're going to buy, or what lengths we've gone to "get a deal" on more of the stuff we already have. It's a small thing perhaps, but by managing our tongues we might just remind ourselves how much of our living (and happiness) involves spending money on ourselves, and the bonus would be that we would not run the risk of flaunting it in front of those who have less, or can afford less.

I don't know. I guess I think that it can't hurt to be more self-aware, and more aware of those around us. Lord save me from my own oblivion.

The ride in:          6'C Wind (none)
The ride home:    9'C Wind ESE 15 ks, rain

* In solidarity with a good friend who has posed a reasonable argument against the need for the word "pair" in describing scissors, or pants, I have omitted the usual "pair of" in my title. Anyone who can provide a reasonable explanation for continuing to use "pair of" to preface "scissors" or "pants," please let me know.
 
 

For tomorrow I still need to ...

- make lunch
- mark some notebook work
- check through my "planning" notebook
- brush my teeth
- clean up the cereal bowl and tea cup sitting beside me right now
- log my bike ride for today and yesterday (because I forgot to yesterday)
- pack for the ride, which entails: choosing what to wear and packing, closing down the notebook and packing it
- head for bed

The ride in:         8'C Wind W 25 ks
The ride home:   12' C Wind (none)

Altered to CMA

I've altered this post to CMA. Sorry for any inconvenience.

The ride in:        8'C Wind SE 15 ks
The ride home:  11'C Wind SW 15 ks (light rain)

Art and money

I'm watching the Robert Hughes documentary, The Mona Lisa Curse, which you can view on YouTube in 12 - 6 minute segments. It explores the effects of the commodification of art on our experience of, or even the possibility of, it. Today, he says, we don't view the pieces of art on the walls of museum without the question "How much is it worth?" hanging around in our heads. Often this question is the primary question. And often we use the answer to the question "against" the piece, as a condemnation of the person or organization that owns it, and even as a critique of the piece itself (remember the "Voice of Fire" (pictured) purchase by the National Gallery of Canada.)

It is, in the discussion of the meaning and impact of a piece of art, patently absurd to include in the conversation, the amount paid for it. Barnett Newman's painting speaks for itself. His oeuvre speaks for itself. And it speaks clearly only if we're not talking about the usefulness (ie. the monetary "value") of it. Art is, as Oscar Wilde says, useless - it cannot have utility in any common sense of the word. It exists on a transcendent level. It engages us in questions of the meaning and significance of our lives.  When we assign a use-value, or utility, to it, a la Bentham, the art of it, that is, its quest to engage us in a conversation about meaning, and its attempt to answer the great questions of being - Who am I? and What am I doing here? - evaporate into a haze of investment and profit potential.

Rode 56 ks today (the Rosetown loop) at an average of 31.5 kph.

Fall arrives at the soccer pitch in Neepawa

It was the kind of cool Fall day that, in about three months, we'll wish we could have everyday.

We couldn't look any cooler ...

The boys played soccer (3-1 loss to Flin Flon; 2-1 loss to Swan River; 2-0 win over Neepawa) and we watched.

... in the sun and the wind ...

For a short bench and a young squad, they played very well, and with a few breaks the scores would have looked better.

... heading upfield in complete control!

Thanks for a good day guys!

Posting everyday ...

... is kind of exhausting at times. Blah blah blah blah blah.

Think I'll head over to the neighbours for a good old-fashioned photo. Stand in front of the house. Lean up against the fence. Try to stand tall. Why? Why why why? Even my best friend's mom is taller than me. What's a small plumber to do?

Think I'll go to bed. I need the sleep.

The ride in:       8'C Wind W 10 ks
The ride home: 14'C Rain Wind W 20 ks

and the winner is ...

So I coach a high school soccer team, and today we won. We feel great. A couple of days ago we lost, and we didn't feel so good. Still, then, we sucked it up and came up with some good reasons for our failure on the pitch. And then we said that we'd do better next time, that we'd get 'em next time.

This is all fine and dandy for sports and games, but is this a good analogy for everyday living? Ending up as a winner or a loser makes sense on the pitch, because otherwise, what's the point of playing? Of course it's up to me, if I'm the loser, to consider the failure as an opportunity for learning and improvement, but I'm not going to engage the game next time around if getting better, and winning, aren't options in one way or another. In individual sports, its usually about self-improvement, but it's still reasonable to interpret my motivation as "win-lose". For instance, on my bike I try to ride faster, and I use a cycle computer to help me keep track - when I do ride faster (average speed over a set distance), that's a win.

I don't know if there's a way out of this "competitive" model. Back in the day we sold this "game" called the "Ungame" in the bookstore my dad owned. The "point" of this game was to move your piece around a board and then pick up cards and answer the questions on them truthfully. You didn't accumulate points, you just "divulged information" to your fellow gameplayers. Yuck! A few people bought it (probably those people who like "icebreakers" at the beginning of a meeting - yuck(x2)), but it never took off in sales.

The answer to my own question, at the beginning of the second paragraph, is, I believe, yes. I'd like to think that we (humans that is, all of us) would strive to be more cooperative, more sympathetic, more empathetic - more good - without some sense of "win," but from my own experience, and from watching kids work and play, I'd say that we're hardwired (so to speak) to do things because it feels good to do them. We only make those efforts if there's something in it for us. To deny that "need to win" is to fight our natural circuitry. Listen to yourself when you lose. You try to take something positive away from the experience, in order to improve next time. If you deny the possibility of some kind of "win" at anything, most (all?) people are going to walk off the field of play.

I'm reminded of this truth most clearly as a coach of team. I know when I've failed to give a kid the chance for a "win" (whether we win the game or not). The stakes are pretty high in these kinds of games. I'm always saying, "I'll do better next time."

The ride in:           9'C Wind W 5ks
The ride home:     Picked up the truck (after the game): muffler repair.

(whatever it is)

Not everything needs to be explained.
Not everything can be.
It is (whatever it is) easier when you accept this.

Timing. Really it was everything. He couldn't begin to count the number of times that his was off, or someone interrupted, or something, some stupid little thing, like a mosquito, or a phone call, or some damned radio announcer would puncture his consciousness and he'd have to turn it off, pick it up, swat it, or something. And by then he'd lost his place. He began to track how bad his timing really was. On a calendar he'd received as a gift from friends, which featured scenes in Tuscany, he would make tick marks, five at a time, in each day's block, of interruptions that had fully derailed him in his work. The month of San Gimignano averaged eleven a day. Which might not seem like much to some, but when he looked at the array of blocks littered with cross-hatches beneath the green and blue and stone of this medieval haven, he knew something had to be done. A change of venue, a retreat, a habit broken, or reformed, but something needed to change. And soon.

The ride in:           6'C Wind W 15 ks
The ride home:   14'C Wind NE 15 ks

Good things happen to good people

Good friend and former student (W.C. Miller Grad '02) Sean Braun has been awarded a CD Howe grant to complete his Masters in Creative writing at the UM. Hey Sean, nice hat!

The ride in:           4'C Wind NW 10 ks
The ride home:   15'C Wind NW 15 ks

Cutting lines

Some things that are considerably less than an enjoyable use of your time, you do out of a combination of obligation (the greater good) and because you care about, even enjoy, the end result. What would be a reasonable word for these things, or this sentiment? Persevifaction? Satisverance?

Today Chris and I, along with the occasional help of some of the players on the field scrimmaging, cut the lines for the pitch. We used tape measures that weren't long enough, nylon twine what was plenty long enough, corner flags, and my lawn mower, set to its lowest possible mowing height. (Which wasn't really low enough in some places because some over-zealous lawn mower cut the whole field pretty close despite my request for them to wait until we'd cut the lines, and then to not cut it so close. Crap!) We cut the lines for two fields, and by the end of it, almost four hours later, I can't say that I had a great sense of satisfaction. For one, we'll have to go back and spray paint the lines, because the mowing just isn't clear enough. For two, it was a tedious way to spend a Sunday afternoon, especially after a pretty busy Saturday. I needed the day off, but I was cutting lines. For the greater good, you understand. But I feel petty and restless. Get over it, you say? Yeah, probably. That's good advice. Still, four hours is four hours. I get bitter when I don't get enough time to do the things that really matter to me.

O Lord, save me from my satisverance!

A time to sing

Tonight we hosted a concert that was part Mennonite variety night and part music history. The concert series - this was the second version of three (each named "Singing In Time") - was planned and organized by Judith Klassen (Ph.D Music), Rudy Schellenberg (CMU), and Roland Sawatzky (Curator, Menn. Heritage Vill.).  Around 200 (!) people packed themselves up into the loft (standing, sitting, whatever) to hear the informative introductions followed by the musical illustrations of four groups. Things began with songs from the Southern Manitoba Choral Society Vespers choir, then the stage was overtaken by the unruly and hilarious Brommtopp mummers, followed by the "high-barn" act of the night, Mel Braun (baritone) accompanied by Laura Loewen (piano) (a simple, and marvelous, and humorous, and oh so well-played performance), and closed by Jess Reimer accompanied by Jeremy Hamm (another fantastic performance).

Then, as if all this were not sufficient, Werner and Marlene Ens led the willing in five Mennonite circle games (the closest some of us get to dancing - and you know what that might lead to ...). After all of this watermelon (rabooze) and rollkuchen were served, with the obligatory coffee. It was a great night once again.

No pictures. Sorry. We were too busy trying to make it possible to get all those people up there.

The rack

There's got to be a more apt euphemism than "the sandwich generation." This one is so, how should we say it, foody. The metaphor of it doesn't really hold well, at least not past the visual sense of it. So what if, in fact, the corned beef and sauerkraut, the peanut butter and honey, the egg salad, the tomato and mayo, the bacon lettuce and tomato, is caught (is it really caught?) between two slices of bread (white? rye? whole wheat?). That's as far as the metaphor extends in any interesting way. Otherwise the relentless push and pull of oblige and love and compassion and regret and guilt and respect is more like ... well, something else. The rack? A tractor pull? The Rack it is. I'm racked. Rack 'em up. Let's wait for the rack and ruin.

Today Margruite got the call. Her Dad had his second heart attack in less than a month. So here's what the summer looks like if you're living our version of The Rack. You help to launch one iteration of yourself off to university. You support another iteration in her new job and a new living space. You adjust to the relative emptiness of the house with the final iteration, in her final year of high school. While you do this you celebrate your father's 90th birthday. You perform miscellaneous tasks to do with your duties as executor and power of attorney over his accounts, etc. This might mean a simple phone call. It might also mean a drive in to the city. You try to coordinate these things so as to minimize the trips. But some calls come, and when you answer them you just know that the game's changed, and you have no option but to respond to the change.

The complicating factor in all of this, believe it or not, is love. At least it's that way for me. If I could dispassionately watch this happen, flex and sway with it, and not be affected on a gut level, I'd be in better shape. Annoyed sure, but not spent. You find yourself becoming immune to calls at times. You make calls, then you take calls, then you wait for calls. You want to unplug the phone, because when you talk into it sometimes you feel yourself draining away.

Why is this impulse to freedom from responsibility so strong in me? Why do I not want to care, when the only way out of it is to care? I recall now this moment, which I know was in fact many moments, of my Dad walking home for supper (because I would occasionally accompany him on this walk) wearing his tan windbreaker (in Fall) and a hat of some sort, and stopping by to see Grandma. She was living alone in a 6th Street single level fourplex. Grandpa had died a few years back. Dad did Grandma's banking and other things. He arranged for her rides to church on Sunday, or would take her himself (we didn't attend the same churches). He never, or I never heard him, quibble about these visits, or this tasks. It was a regular, natural element of his routine. She lived quite literally, "along the way." How great an impact proximity has on the quality of, and routines of, our lives. My Dad's "Rack" was mitigated by being nearby. Grandma's place was on the way. Each day he could spend 15 or 20 minutes with her, helping her. It was a marvelous economy. He had the same pressures that we now experience, but with less distance.

We have, in our time, tempted ourselves with a childish oblivion: out of sight, out of mind. We move away. We move parents into seniors homes. We pay professionals. We get some space. We seek a separation that seems to ease the load (physically), but which, in fact, complicates our interactions with those we love and for whom we need to care. We have allowed our desire for the apparent practical gains of distance (I'm going to live my own life!) to cloud the logic of living close, physically, to the ones who need, or will need our care. And frankly there's not much we're going to do to change it now. We've made the choice to stretch. We've tied ourselves to our own rack. And so its wheels will turn.  

The ride in:         14'C Wind SE 20k
The ride home:   17'C Wind SE 30k

And the top has arrived!

I'm riding home from work today (it's 7 PM; it's that late because I was in Winkler for our first league: we lost 4-2, but it was a very respectable showing) and I meet Margruite walking down the road. She's going for an evening walk, I think, isn't that nice. Isn't that so pleasantly rural. But as I pull up she says that Todd's bringing the table top in a few minutes and she's going to Ray and Marilyn's to ask Ray to bring the tractor (with a front-end loader) to lift the top (it's about 1500 lbs!) off of Todd's truck. I'm dubious. I'm surprised. I'd actually been thinking, as I was riding into the wind, that this would be the perfect night for this to happen, because I wouldn't be ready for it ... at all. And here it was happening, because just as she says this I turn around to see Todd driving down the road toward our place, with the top in the truck-bed. Well holeee! So Margruite keeps walking to Ray's for the tractor, even though I say I'm not sure that the old John Deere will be able to lift it. I tell her to tell Ray not to put the bucket on the front end; no point in adding weight to it, I say. So we scramble. Ray comes by. Margruite and I get some bales from the loft of the chicken coop (to cushion the descent of the top, should the tractor not be able to let it down slowly) and Todd and Ray hook up the front-end loader to the nylon straps looped around the stone. And then we tried it. And the old John Deere lifted it, and Todd drove the pick-up out from underneath it, and we put down the blocking and the bales underneath the slab to keep it up off of the ground and to facilitate lifting up for the next step in the process of getting the table together and in place.

So here it sits now, out on the front yard, cushioned by two hay bales, awaiting a backhoe with a long enough boom to lift it and move it through the front door into the house. That'll be the next step, but not the last one. Pretty amazing piece of granite though, eh?

... the bottom half is in the building!

Here's the base for the granite table-top that will be arriving one of the next few days! Yes, the base of this (which weighs between 600 & 700 pounds) is a granite slab (if you will) that Todd Braun has bored out and inserted four three inch diameter stainless steel pipes, which will support the 110 inch by 43 inch (3 inch thick) tabletop. In the picture you see the wooden dowels on which the base is resting. We used these to maneuver it into position. The whole operation went smoothly thanks to Cornelio and his Bobcat, and the timely arrival of Myron! It was like moving in a mini-pyramid. Well okay, not really, but anytime you move stone using rollers, and it works, you feel pretty good about yourself. You feel your kinship with the ancients. And you're happy to get the job done without crushing your toes.

The ride in:          2' C Wind W 5 k
The ride home:   18'C Wind SE 15 k

Day 1 - It must be the lights

He walks into the first staff meeting of the year, without his coffee, grabs a free fritter from the T Hos boxes, and sits down in his prescribed place. He remembers then that he's a leader. A group leader. Oh my. No coffee and he has to be alert. He waits there then, listening. Playing the attentive, engaged colleague. He smiles, he sighs, he slouches, he sits up straight. At the earliest convenience he begs the pardon of his group and steps out for coffee. Fortunately, when he gets to the staffroom, there's enough to fill his capacious steel (copper and chrome) travel mug - which he does quickly. He heads back to the meeting. He does not detour through the office, though he's sorely tempted to find something, anything, that's interesting in there. Stepping back into the meeting he pauses, takes his first sip, and then heads over to his table group. They've started. They're sharing. What could be better? He does his bit. He tries to keep it light. He tries to keep it real. Honest. He steers clear of bitter. He steers clear of snark. For the most part he manages. The meeting goes on though. No matter what positivity he spins into it, the thing gets no shorter. It brooks no seconds. It will not be out-bridled. And still, despite a second cup of coffee, his eyes burn and his lids droop. Is it decaf? Is it old and out of schvunk? He'd like to think so, but he's pretty sure that's not it. He squints up at the ceiling. The diffusers can't keep up. The blue tubes buzz, whine, and emit on. What's to be done in the face of the twin ballasts of economy and industrial design?

The ride in:        13'C, Wind 20 ks NNW
The ride home:  18'C, Wind 15 ks NW

Today ... tomorrow

We moved Sara to CMU today; we're down to one.

This evening I picked up the base for our new stone table.

Today always ends in tomorrow.

Bracing for change

GeeVs, Justin, and I rode the 35 ks from the cabin to Winnipeg Beach at a good pace. This was a great ride, and had we not had other things to do, it would have been good to keep on.

At Winnipeg Beach we met Margruite, Sara, and Bekah at the Firefly Gallery. Then we had ice cream, and headed to the city. We had supper together at GeeVs and Justin's. I cut my hair with an electric clipper for the first time.

Then we hugged and said goodbye. We were all bracing ourselves for the transition. Work, school. Labour Day weekend is the calm before the ...

Breakfast, family, fireworks

On September 4th we got up, made pancakes for breakfast, read, wrote, and waited for the rest of us.

When the rest of us arrived we did our usual geeky stuff.

Then we made supper.

After which we headed out to the Spruce Sands Bay common area (a grass field on the lake) and watched a pretty decent fireworks display. No pictures of this. Sorry. You'll have to imagine it. Or go create your own.

Tough riding for great pizza

On September 3rd (Friday) I rode from the friends' cabin we were renting (right on Lake Winnipeg), which was windswept and wave lusty most of the weekend,

just North of Camp Morton, into that gale of a North wind (it must have been 35-40 kph) to 10 ks North of Riverton. The destination had been Hecla village, but 40 ks into that relentless wind, down a straight highway, was enough. When Margruite and the girls pulled up alongside me, I said uncle. I put the bike on the rack, got into the car, and we drove on to sightsee.

There was the smoked Goldeye; I don't think Margruite can pass this delicacy in a store without buying it - and sharing it with her daughters. (If I ever have trouble with my love life, you know, the kind about which you hear me complaining - aloud - then remind me to find some smoked Goldeye and rub it all over my body as some sort of pheromonal call for help - Lord knows I can't eat the stuff.) 

There was the view from the lighthouse.

   

There was the eponysterical sailboat.

There was bench to lie on and sleep.

Having eaten with our eyes, we set out to eat with our mouths. We'd heard about a place called Integrity Foods, just North of Riverton. 

These folks, on a six acre farm, bake bread, bagels, etc with Spelt flour (an ancient grain). They bake in a wood-fired brick bake-oven and supply Organza and other specialty shops and restaurants with organic baked products. 

During the summer (from May to the long weekend in Sept) they also bake (in the wood-fired oven) and serve some of the best pizza around (the bison mushroom was incredible!) - and they only do this on Friday and Saturday nights.  

While we were there (they only serve the pizza from 5 to 9) there were always at least 25 people on the yard. People would eat on the yard at the tables provided, or take it home. There were locals there, and people out from Winnipeg. You'll have to wait until next year to try this, but I highly recommend it!

So if the pizza is great, is a tough ride worth it? Yes. Yes it is.

Left Behind

I think I left my favourite pair of camping/outdoor utility pants at the lake. If you look at that photo of me tying up the canoes, that will be the last minutes of my wearing of said pants. Sigh. Those darn material longings will get ya' every time. I'm feeling all nostalgic now.

Further to said nostalgia: M bought those pants for me to wear while I was convalescing with my kneecap injury. They were the best for those days too. Loose fit. Pockets in all the right places. Removable bottom quarters (which I still have to remind me) to turn them into stylish capris. Geez. It just won't be the same without them.

Bike tinkering

I'm restructuring my Fuji into a kind of cyclo-cross format. I've had the frame altered (the brake stay here was cut out, shortened, and then re-welded into a higher position) to make for enough clearance for the tires (although it's still tight),

and I'm running one chain-ring (42T) up front (so it's only a six speed). I'm going to try to use it for commuting this winter.

It's not that I'm giving up on the fixie, or the single speed. It's that I'm looking for more utility in my bike stable. I need an all-weather, all-rounder. I'm hoping this will do it.

That, and it's fun to tinker.